


Take What You Need

by Cant_We_Just_Dance



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boners, Daydreaming, Grinding, Law Mention, M/M, Pining, Prostitution, Snooping, slight daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 06:11:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13969038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cant_We_Just_Dance/pseuds/Cant_We_Just_Dance
Summary: George Washington doesn't expect himself to lust after his assistant, but he does anyway.George Washington doesn't expect himself to snoop in his assistant's planner, but he does anyway.George Washington doesn't expect to find out that his assistant is a prostitute on the side, but feel free to fill in the blank.





	Take What You Need

**Author's Note:**

> Heavy mentions of vague sex and prostitution, don't read if it'll squick/trigger you.

Strangely enough, George Washington preferred to begin projects amidst the cacophony of his office, and complete them when silence was so prevalent it was almost overwhelming. Sure, it made anything that required signatures difficult, but such things could wait for the morning, when he could hand the papers to his assistant and trust that they’d reach their desired destination. After all, despite his assistant’s commitment to earning his degree at the nearby university, Hamilton had never once made a mistake when it came to Washington’s papers. As an assistant, he was invaluable, and as a simple work acquaintance, he would make a great connection to have when he got a full-time job.

Now, though, the only thing that concerned George was the sound of traffic outside his window, the stuffy September air too confining to not have something in place to break the heat. The office AC had been broken for a week, and as a result, sounds of the outside world often filtered through. Car horns and occasional tire screeches rose from the world below, and it seemed as though the building was right outside the sounds instead of nine stories above it. Washington had often enjoyed the sounds, especially on Tuesday, when what seemed like a street band had set up below his window and given some sort of indie-rock show. He’d tapped his fingers to the beat, fingers hitting keys on his keyboard with each chord that was strummed, and the melody was glued to his lips for the remainder of the week. 

Such things that had brought him pleasure earlier only served as a sort of poetic irony as that same music seemed grating, though it was most likely the same artists. Sound didn’t belong with night, and Washington had gone so far as to give Hamilton the rest of the night off, not wanting to have to hear the sound of phone calls outside his office. Back home, in Virginia, during stuffy summer nights, children would run outside and catch fireflies, only to set them free, and their feet would be wet from having run in the grass. Their mothers would scold them for not remembering to put on their outdoor shoes before heading to the garden, though she would have to hold back a small smile at the looks on her children’s face. How long had it been since George had last seen such a smile on his mother’s face, hair tied back and stuck to her face with sweat? How long had it been since the last summer night filled with crickets instead of cars and sweetgrass rather than smog? Too long. It had been too long.

Suddenly, whether caused by the lemongrass-flavored nostalgia or the all-encompassing heat, Washington shot up from his spot at his desk, setting his hands down on the dark wood and let his gaze scan the papers on it. Most had his signature on the bottom, while other yet had pictures paperclipped to the tops, and more still were held in manila envelopes that were stuffed into the brim and threatening to spill out. At that time, Washington knew quite well that he had not much more left to do, and that it would likely be more productive to leave the work for the weekend, return on Monday with a fresh mind. Not much was left to do, anyhow. Just filing that could be left to the interns and letters that needed to be given to the intern in charge of mail. All of those were things that Alexander could take care of and pretend he’d done before leaving on Friday, as if Washington wasn’t aware of the fact that the younger man snuck into the office on weekends to get a headstart. He’d make a fine lawyer someday, if he ever learned how to care for himself, which did in fact include knowing when it was time to stop working and go home.

Washington would have told Alexander to go home, if he was at the office this late, citing the fact that people worked best on Monday if they had rested enough on the weekends. Rather than carving himself a hypocritical pedestal to stand on and judge others from, he set adie the proverbial chisel and picked up his briefcase. He carefully -though not as carefully as Alexander would have- set his folders and research in the case and closed it, locking both sides and grabbing it with his left hand as he headed out of the office, turning off the lights on his way out. 

As he left the office, he passed Alexander’s desk; of course he did. Alexander was his assistant, after all, and it wouldn’t particularly make sense if he didn’t pass the man’s workspace on the way out of his own office. Most nights, Washington would step out of the pebbled-glass room and smile curtly at his assistant, remarking that the man should head home soon, since without Washington, there wouldn’t be anyone to assist. Alexander has chuckled softly at the remark the first time he heard it, and informed Washington that he got his best work done when he found himself stuck in such a professional place. Then he’d opened a textbook, one that had too many dulled tones on the cover to be anything close to new, perhaps far older than simply second-hand.

That very same textbook sat atop Alexander’s desk, just to the left of his keyboard, which itself had most of the letters worn out from its frequent use. The man’s desk had never been particularly tidy, often covered in sticky notes and spiral notebooks, or empty coffee cups that Alexander had forgotten to toss into the trash can just under his desk. A week or two ago, Washington had made a small comment about the chaotic state of Hamilton’s workspace, and he’d come back the next day to find it strangely spotless. Almost as if Alexander, hard-willed, hot-headed Alexander, had bent out of his way for a small thing that Washington had wanted.

He knew it was wrong to look through Alexander’s book, knew that there would be neon sticky notes on the pages and highlighted segments and notes in the margins that only Alexander would think to write. Washington knew that his assistant would be displeased if he found out that his boss had gone through his personal belongings, perhaps even one that he was frantically looking for at this very hour. It would be better to ignore the torn pieces of binder paper that stuck out from almost every page, and it was most likely in his best interest to pretend that the small planner Alexander kept beside him at all times was instead beside his textbook. Yet another thing Hamilton would be delighted to find he had not lost, but simply left at the office overnight.

Nevertheless, Washington took the few steps forward it took and opened the textbook to a random page, humming softly in surprise at the lack of notes on a certain page, other than a singular blue sticky note that simply stated ‘ASK HIM’ beneath a passage on a case. It was something about criminal law, a rather famous case that had proven how a suspect’s rights being violated during interrogation was grounds for persecution of the offending officers. The ‘HIM’ the note referred to was mostly likely Washington himself, as he’d been lucky enough to attend the courtroom as a civilian during the rather influential case. If one were to ask him, Washington had most definitely not felt a strange curl of pride in his chest, like freshly-grown ivy around his heart, holding it not tightly, but carefully.

A few more flips through the pages of the book revealed nothing about the man that Washington was not already aware of. The way he dotted his ‘i’s when he was stressed formed more of a dash than a dot, and he tended to prefer orange highlighter over the typical yellow. Alexander always made sure not to leave those pesky stray bits of paper on the edge of a torn-out page, having told Washington that they scratched at his hand when he held the pages, and it bothered him a bit too much to simply ignore. After that, all notebook pages Washington handed to Alexander were uniformly crisp on both side. If Alexander noticed, it never came up in conversation, much like the time Washington caught a glimpse of Alexander messaging someone, inquiring about which of them would supply the rope and which would bring lube. Washington had done his best not to feel somewhat jealous. He failed in that respect, though no one was particularly let down, since none really knew of his feelings. 

Washington liked to keep it that way.

Just how Alexander liked to keep his day laid out in a paper planner, opting out of the electronic alternative for whatever reason. Apparently, he hadn’t considered the fact that an digital planner wouldn’t get left at his office and be inaccessible until the next day, at the very least. Another problem with old-fashioned planners was the fact that despite his well-trained self-control, Washington couldn’t keep himself from reaching for it and opening it to the current date. Without so much as a second thought, Washington began reading it, unsure of what exactly he thought it would say, but was pleasantly surprised by the results all the same.

For tonight, starting at eleven-thirty at night and going until the next morning was clearly marked in dark blue in, ‘Be reminded of your place’. Washington didn’t particularly require reminding of Alexander’s place, especially during long, bitterly cold nights, or evening showers when he had nowhere to be except with warm water running down his body. Alexander’s place was on his knees, sometimes, mouth stretched around Washington’s length and trying to breathe but instead finding his dark hair pulled tightly to prevent movement other than what Washington controlled. Alexander’s place was bent over Washington’s knee after a day at the office where he’d been unbearable; he was to count out every last hit, and thank Washington for training him to be so good. Alexander’s place was the bed, the shower, the kitchen table, the wall, the floor, the desk, or just about anywhere that could hold his weight.

Ideas like these always started the same way.

Alexander was somehow already naked, dark hair down and framing his cheeks as he held Washington close, but this time, he wasn’t Washington. To Alexander, in these stolen and washed-off thoughts, he was simply George. George would do only what Alexander asked, and he would do it so well that Alexander lost the ability to form words, to beg for more, to plead for exactly what he needed. George wouldn’t waste time playing dumb, instead, he would take what was rightfully his, what had been his since the day he’d interviewed Alexander and had to touch himself under his desk after the man left, ass looking damn fantastic in those jeans. Washington often found himself enjoying those very same jeans every time Alexander wore them, letting clients into his office and shutting the door himself and-

And fuck, when had he gotten a hand on the front of his pants, idly stroking the very obvious hard-on he was sporting beneath the dark fabric? Washington threw the planner down onto Alexander’s desk, shutting the textbook, and grabbing his briefcase as he rushed out of the office, knowing his way well enough that he didn’t need to turn on any of the lights that had already been shut off for the night. Thankful that there was no one else in the office to notice his erection, which had been caused by less-than-decent thoughts about his assistant, Washington rushed to his car, unlocking it quickly and driving off into the city traffic of late Friday night.

Once in the safety of his car, with its sleek finish and tinted windows, Washington finally allowed himself to let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in, and unclench his jaw. This isn’t normal, this isn’t what’s right, he tried to remind himself, doing his best to think of unpleasant things as he merged lanes and tried to will away his boner. When that didn’t even resemble anything close to doing the job, Washington sighed, and resigned himself to waiting until he got home, if he could ever survive the fucking traffic.

As if it were a miracle, Washington suddenly remembered something, and took a left turn onto a less busy street, then a right, and went straight. Soon enough, he was in a far less busy -although far more seedy- neighborhood. Everything would be alright, as long as his cart didn’t decide to break down then and there. There were plenty of tiny diners and bodegas along the way, along with red-light cameras at intersections, so someone would likely see if he were being robbed at gunpoint. He eventually got far enough that all he needed was another right turn, and he’d be twenty minutes from home, and he’d be able to take care of the half-mast erection he was sporting.

If it were not for the damned red light, Washington could have made the turn, and avoided the hookers. He’d driven down this street before, and knew for a matter of fact that the desperate women and men who selled themselves only waited at the longest red lights, the ones that gave them the most time. And since Washington’s windows were already down, it was no surprise that a young man sauntered up to his car, leaning over and almost saying something before letting out a terrified-sounding squeak.

Sighing heavily, Washington turned to the hooker, ready to say that he wasn’t interested -or even gay, if any of his colleagues were to inquire-, but felt his heart nearly stop at the sight before him. There, standing in platform heels and a sheer tube top, was none other than his assistant, Alexander Hamilton, all dolled up and ready for a ride. For a moment, neither of them made a single move, nor did they even consider speaking. And then, the silence broke.

“Get in the car, Hamilton,” Washington said sternly yet in a gentle voice, as though he were disciplining a rather adorable puppy. He turned his gaze back to the road, and was greeted by the still-red traffic light.

“S-Sir,” Alexander stammered, biting his lip and trying to ignore the wetness in his eyes at his mentor having seen him in such a way, doing what he was doing. “I can explain, it’s not what it l-looks-”

 

“I know exactly what you’re doing, Hamilton, and while I’m not here to lecture you, I suggest that you get in the damn car,” Washington stated, trying not to break his facade and let kindness show through, or to crack a small joke as he had done so many times in hope of seeing Alexander’s smile.

“...Then you know I must need the money…” Alexander whispered, pulling away from the open window a single step. “I need to stay here. Unless you’re gonna pay, I’ve gotta go…”

Washington sighed, and pulled out his wallet, grabbing a random assortment of bills and handing them to Alexander. “There, I paid you, now get in the car… Please, Alexander.”

To his credit, Alexander shoved the money into a pocket in his shorts and walked around the car, opening the passenger side door and entering, keeping his eyes trained on the floor mats as though they were the singular most interesting thing he’d ever seen. He buckled himself in just in time for the light to turn green and for Washington to drive as quickly as he could away from that filthy street corner, with those people dressed so much like the man seated next to him. Alexander nervously cracked his knuckles, Washington doing his best not to let the sounds disturb him. He could have said something, and Alexander would have stopped immediately. After all, he was paying for the man’s time. Alexander would do whatever he wanted.

George hated that the very thought was exciting rather than disgusting.

He pulled into the garage of his townhouse, closing the garage door behind him and stepping out of the car, Alexander following suit and walking behind Washington into the living room. When Washington patted the cushion on the sofa next to him, Alexander sat down, and Washington tried to ignore the need to praise Alexander for being such a good boy for him, doing just what he was told.

“Forty for my mouth,” Alexander stated plainly, keeping his gaze averted, even as Washington’s eyes widened in surprise. “You already gave me twenty-three, so you’re mostly there. A hundred for my ass, and if you want me to top, that’s an extra fifteen. If you want to tie me down, or do any sort of BDSM, my safeword is the traffic light system. No drawing blood, and if I have to remind you of that twice, then I-”

“For fuck’s sake, Alexander,” Washington breathed out, exasperated, taking the young man’s hand in his own and squeezing it tightly, trying his best to be reassuring, to be comforting. God only knows how much Alexander needed it in that moment. “I’m not going to do any of that to you. You don’t have to do this, I promise, I can give you a raise, and more vacation days, and…”

“With all due respect, sir, I notice when you stare at my ass,” Alexander replied, not an ounce of emotion in his words, a skill he’d earned through years of practice, telling people how wonderful they were, telling them how amazing they made him feel, telling them whatever they paid him to say. “I know that you want me, and I can hear you jerking off in your office, though I doubt anyone else can. So, if you’d really just rather add my payment as a ‘bonus’ on my paycheck, that’s alright.”

“...That’s not what I want, Alexander. I don’t want to pay you to have sex with me,” Washington said, though his words sounded more of a plea than anything else. “I know… I know what it’s like to be broke and in university, but you don’t have to do this. What I want regardless of your… work… it doesn’t matter. I want to help you, and that doesn’t include paying you to give me a handjob.”

“I’m sure as hell not doing it for free,” Alexander spat, his temper beginning to rise in his eyes as he sat up straighter. “I don’t want your charity, and I don’t need your help. If you want me to ride your cock all night, I’ll do it, but I need to be able to eat, and assistant work doesn’t cover school and board. I know you want me, and I’ll do anything you want, anything at all.”

Had Alexander not crawled into Washington’s lap, straddling his half-hard erection that had suddenly began to fill out again, Washington would have made a retort, or had some sort of argument. Instead, he simply stared up at Alexander with wide eyes, doing nothing to mask the fact that he’d wanted this for so long, too long. When Alexander spoke again, it was in a soft, gentle voice, one that Washington had imagined Alexander speaking to him in during early morning full of gentle sex and generous kisses.

“I wanna feel you inside me, wanna know if what everyone in the office says is true, if you’re really so controlling in bed. Wanna be held down, or tied down- would you like to tie me down? I can behave with ropes, can behave however you want, can play into whatever fantasy you’ve been trying to push away every time I wear those jeans that are tight around my ass. You wanna feel my ass, wanna squeeze it, huh? You stare at it so often, might as well try it while you have the chance.”

Alexander reached down and grabbed George’s hands. Positioning them on his ass, pressing them against the softness and moaning softly as George tightened his grip slightly.

“I can be so good, I can be all yours, all you gotta do it take care of me, and I’ll let you touch me and beat me and fuck me to your heart’s content. We could even do it over your desk tomorrow morning, yeah, would you like that? How many times have you pictured me, bent over, so pretty and wanting on top of that desk? Take what you want, George. Take what you’ve needed- what we’ve needed for so damn long. Hold me down and take me, Daddy.”

**Author's Note:**

> The only thing I'd love more than a fan-written sex scene full of desperation and pure need between George and an indifferent Alexander is a comment <3


End file.
